


Bring Her Home

by harleygirl2648



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Funeral, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4306893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harleygirl2648/pseuds/harleygirl2648
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie copes with the loss of Abigail once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring Her Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaryWisdom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryWisdom/gifts).



Her cursor was blinking, mocking her.

Why couldn’t she write this? She’d covered gruesome murders without so much as a few less hours of sleep. But this was different.

_“I’m here to see Abigail Hobbs.”_

_“Are you a relative?”_

_“No, but I’m all she has left. Please let me see her.”_

_“I’m sorry, ma’am, but…”_

She shook her head, violently, gritting her teeth. Cracking her knuckles, she started typing forcefully.

**BLOODBATH AT LECTER HOME**

_There was a gruesome scene at the home of renowned psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter this week. Among the attacked were FBI profiler Will Graham, who was nearly gutted with a linoleum knife, and Jack Crawford, the head of the FBI Behavioral Sciences Division, was found barely clinging to life in the basement of horrors, and Dr. Alana Bloom, seemingly thrown from the second-story window. Also found was…_

Freddie took deep swallowing breaths as she forced herself to keep typing.

_Also found was Abigail Hobbs, who until this point was presumed dead. Her throat was slit in the same manner it was back when her father, Garrett Jacob Hobbs, otherwise known as the Minnesota Shrike, slit it himself. All were transported to the Baltimore State Hospital. They remain under intensive care._ _Sadly, Abigail Hobbs…_

Tears began to form in her eyes.

_Abigail Hobbs was pronounced dead on the scene._

Abruptly, she slammed her laptop closed and dropped it on the mustard-yellow carpet. Choking sounds escaped her throat. She remembered going to the morgue, alone. Seeing Abigail spread out on the table, her glassy eyes open, the cut on her neck deep but clean of blood. Like a fish in the grocery store counter, lifeless but desperate hope frozen in the eyes.

For the first time in her life, Fredericka Lounds was speechless. There was so much she wanted to say, but the words formed bad-tasting lumps in her mouth. All she could do was stroke her chestnut hair and mutter “I’m sorry”s over and over again.

In order to deal with her grief, she threw herself into work, putting herself in charge of the obituary. Writing about death was easy, after all, she’d had plenty of practice in that department. It was writing about her life that was difficult. How she loved shopping, hunting, and reading everything she got her hands on. How they both adored Friends and spent a whole day doing nothing but watching it. How she wanted to work in the FBI. How she loved the smell of carnations. How she didn’t like onions on her burger but liked extra tomatoes and dipped her fries in chocolate milkshakes. How one day, she’d bought the Les Miserables soundtrack and sang every song in her sweet voice. All the little things about her were tiny stabs at her heart. The obituary ran one Sunday in the paper. Frederick had dropped off a copy at her door, but she ripped it and threw it in the trash.

Next were funeral arrangements. As Abigail didn’t have any living relatives, the state wanted to have her cremated. Freddie just couldn’t let that happen, so she took the liberty of making the arrangements herself. She would be buried in a small grave at Hills Crest Cemetery, in the shade of a Japanese cherry tree. Not in the bare sunlight, no, Abigail liked shadowy places. But she also liked flowers, so every spring, she’d be able to see the blossoms and they would cover her headstone and always look beautiful. Neither of them had been religious, but she asked a pastor she knew well at the nearby Presbyterian Church to attend. She herself would deliver the eulogy. As far as she knew, no one else would attend. They were all still in the hospital. She visited each of them, expecting spit in her face and screaming. However, she received quite the opposite.

Jack didn’t say much. All he said, in fact, was, “Tell her I was wrong. And I’m sorry.” Then he closed his eyes, signaling her time to leave.

Tears dripped down Alana’s face as she asked Freddie to wrap her neck in her favorite purple scarf. Fit for a queen. Make sure she looks beautiful. “And tell her I’m sorry. So sorry.”

Finally, she visited Will Graham. He was half-asleep, barely stirring. She had absolutely no idea what to say to him. After all, she’d been convinced that he was the Chesapeake Ripper. And that he had originally killed Abigail.

 _"I blame Will Graham.”_ If she hadn’t said that, would Abigail still be alive? Would everyone have kept looking for her like she had? She quietly approached Will.

“Will, I…I…I’m…I’m so…”

“I know, Freddie. But you can stop right there.” Will said unexpectedly, making her jump slightly. “I’m tired of apologies. Sorry, sorry, sorry, we’re all so very sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save her, I’m more sorry Hannibal took her from me, every single damn person that comes in here is sorry. I’m sick of it.” Freddie turned away and started for the door, not wanting to look him in the eye.

“Wait, Freddie,” Will said, before a coughing fit seized him. The nurse entered and escorted her out, but she heard him wheeze,

“Tell her…tell her…goodbye.”

The door hissed shut behind her.

* * *

 

The day of the funeral was beautiful. Not a cloud in the sky. The gravel crunched under her tires. She got out of the car, adjusted the green scarf that Abigail had bought her, and slowly began the walk to the top of the hill, mentally slapping herself over her own stupidity.

I spent so much time on the eulogy I forgot to place the order for the flowers. Now I have no flowers for her funeral, and therefore I ruined the entire affair. Good job, Lounds, good job. God, it feels like I’m climbing the steps to the chopping block.

Suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks at the top. Frederick Chilton was quietly talking to the pastor, dressed in the plainest black suit he could find. But on the casket was an enormous bouquet of purple and white carnations. Three more bouquets of gorgeous lilies were arranged on the ground. She was speechless.

“Frederick…” was all she managed to say. He turned to face her, the bullet scar visible through the makeup he’d tried to apply himself this morning. There was a sad smile on his lips, “My family sent the lilies. Two of them are from my mother. She also sent you a lemon cake. Rafael sent the other bouquet, with a card.”

Freddie blinked and swallowed hard, “And the carnations?” He walked over to her, looking almost sheepish, “I bought them. I know you were wrapped up in so much this week, that the one thing you would forget would be the flowers.” Taking her hand in his, he looked into her eyes and said softly, “And they were her favorites.”

Now the tears were burning the corners of her eyes. But she looked directly back at him and whispered, “Thank you.” Then with a nervous laugh, she half-smirked, “You should have told me you were coming. I could have done your makeup.” Frederick smiled, wrapped an arm around her and squeezed, kissing her forehead.

She broke away first, taking a deep breath and turned back to look at the preacher. “May we begin?” He nodded, and she unfolded her poorly stapled papers. Frederick bowed his head. She cleared her throat: “Dearly beloved…”


End file.
